


the boat song

by fate-motif (fate_motif)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning, In Another World This Would Be A Spell, Intimacy Behind a Door, M/M, Sea Shanties, but it's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fate_motif/pseuds/fate-motif
Summary: A prayer for the sailors of old of Shetland comes further north to protect the Franklin Expedition.
Relationships: Magnus Manson/Thomas Hartnell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	the boat song

_Terror_ remained where she lay all winter while the sky danced around her in the dark. The ship was a pebble in a stream of storms and auroras, of hail and fog, and during the gentler nights, stars. What few sailors remained to keep watch of the ship trudges through their watches in glum resignation. Every so often, however, a gasp would escape them when they looked up. Wonder still, after years trapped in the frozen wasteland. It was under such a moonlit sky that one evening, one of its sailors was up on deck on watch. Tom Hartnell's duty started grim and silent like all watches, until, softly, ribbons of green and violet light began to weave themselves over the mast and sails. For the first time for months, the seaman gulped in an attempt to hold back tears. In spite of his even pace over the deck, the chill began to take hold of him, as if fixing him to bear witness to the lights. It crosses his mind that this land could have truly been the world of spirits and tricksters. All its beauty and its horrors. All its death and loneliness, and yet, this.

Somewhere below deck, a husky voice begins to hum. As if the lamps were answering to the song, the flames start to flutter in response before Tom is caught in the bite of a breeze cutting across the ship. A thought comes along with it. A spell. The thought was so ridiculous that a nervous chuckle escapes him, and is carried away in the wind. Upon a closer listen, however, words begin to seep through the cracks in the wood. It is the voice of a man, and the words are not English. Not French, not anything he'd heard before. He wasn't even sure it was Native.

 _"Obadeea, obadeea,"_ called the singer, the tune drifting upwards like he was asking a question.

Tom walks over to the tent where the remains of the forward hatch had been sealed shut. The voice has increased in volume, and the words begin to take shape in his mind as he listens more closely. Kneeling by the tent, he jerks his head up in recognition of the seaman. Manson's voice is the one behind the sealed door. Song was no longer common on Terror, after all of its jolliest members had fled to Erebus. Only one seaman dared to still.

_"Saina papa, wara, obadeea, obadeea."_

The tune is interrupted on the other side by a displeased bark, and Tom hears no more of Magnus' eerie song. Not from him, at least. He gives a few more laps to the deck before returning to the hatch, where he's possessed to give a knock and an uncertain call.

"Magnus?"

There's no answer, as presumably he's been ordered to work quietly. The wind has strengthened in absence of the song. And yet Tom continues to walk over the wet deck with an eye set on the clouds slowly drifting from Erebus' direction to Terror.

" _Obadeea, obadeea?"_ The song has wormed its way in Tom's head now, and the word leaves his mouth involuntarily.

From the hatch, almost in answer, comes the response. _"Starka virna vestalie..."_

 _"Obadeea, obadeea?"_ The call and response is done in unison by both of the sailors.

_"Monye."_

Over the course of the watch, Tom takes turns pacing the deck and learning the words of the tongue-twisting little ditty. Sometimes Magnus doesn't answer from where he is, but Tom still sings in hope he'll answer.

_"Starka virna vestalie, obadeea, obadeea_

_Starka virna vestalie, obadia, monye."_

In spite of the incoming gale, Tom holds on to a smile and to his song for the rest of the watch.

_"Stala, stoita, stonga raero,_

_Whit saes du, da bunshka baero?_

_Whit saes du, da bunshka baero?"_

The waves of color above the ship draw his gaze once more.

_"Saina papa, wara, obadeea, obadeea_

_Saina papa, wara, obadeea monye."_

The wind changes its heading as he sings. Pulling the clouds away from the lights. Next time he approaches, the hatch, however, it's not song that greets him.

"I didn't know you knew that song."

Behind the door, Magnus sounds amazed. Tom smiles at the man behind the door, and places a gloved hand over it as if it could reach Magnus when his smile could not.

"What is it?"

"It's a sailor prayer," answers Magnus, after a thoughtful pause. "It's still sung sometimes on the isles, in Unst. We don't know exactly what the words mean anymore. But it's a Christian prayer, I know that much," admits Magnus. "Lieutenant Irving didn't like what it sounded like, earlier. But the North was Christian, too, then. Before Shetland was part of Scotland."

And all the world is His kingdom, isn't it?

The aurora above them continues its merry dance.

"It suits this place," confesses Tom.

Behind the door, Magnus chuckles.

"It'll keep us safe."

Oh, Magnus. Sir John and all his prayer had been dragged beneath the ice and here he hoped a little song from too long ago would be heard somewhere in the endless echoes of the Arctic. A sob escapes Tom's thoat, much to his horror. The tears he'd held back earlier were returning.

"Too late for some of us." And then he laughs. Tom leaves the former hatch then, even when Magnus says something behind the door. The salt welling up at the corners of his eyes was beginning to sting under the wind, and he hastily wipes off what he can. He would leave half his soul here, if he ever returned. No prayer from any man could ever make him or his family whole again.

_Saina papa, wara, obadeea monye..._

And then he hears Magnus sing again. His husky baritone trying to warm him up when neither his words nor his arms could for him. His voice breaks. Like he was crying from behind the hatch.

Like he was praying for Tom.

For John.

**Author's Note:**

> and welcome to my latest self-indulgent entry for the rarepair stock! the unst boat song is one of the few snippets left of the nora language from the shetland isles, which was a local dialect from times before the isles were passed on to scotland and then the united kingdom. you should look it up, it's pretty chilling and beautiful at the same time.


End file.
